


Experimental

by leepala



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Forced Orgasm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 22:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leepala/pseuds/leepala
Summary: Honestly, Aziraphale only did it to see if he could





	Experimental

Honestly, he only did it to see if he could. 

Aziraphale spent a few moments thinking through the mechanics - it's best to consider all the details when performing miracles, make sure you truly know all the steps necessary for the desired results. He glances up over the frame of his glasses, away from the heavy book open on his desk he's pretending to read and instead takes in Crowley, all languid-lounge across the couch. Fully absorbed in his phone, one leg slung over armrest and foot bobbing idly along with whatever modern nonsense he's got playing on the record player. At ease and inattentive. 

Aziraphale tilts his head, and snaps his fingers. 

Crowley bucks up hard into an arch, one hand scrabbling for purchase on the back of the couch and the other flailing out at nothing, inadvertently throwing the phone across the room. The noise torn from his chest is a delightful blend of deep shock punched through with breathless groaning. "Azirn_ngh_," he attempts, though whether it's accusatory or Pavlovian is anyone's guess. 

It's the kind of orgasm achieved after a long, slow day of drawn out tease, toeing the edge for hours before finally being granted release. Hell, Crowley would know, they've certainly played that game before. The hard force of long pent-up need, but all crashing like an avalanche in the space of a blink. Every sense is overwhelmed, ears ringing and vision whiting. 

The unforgiving confines of skin-tight jeans are no help at all, first hard pulse bound tight against his thigh. His back is still arched, one booted foot kicking hard at the arm of the couch, prying fingers out from the tartan to instead claw at his trousers. Little use, really, jeans as fitted as that require minor miracles to apply and remove as it is. 

The first solar-plexus punch lifts just a second before the next one starts, leaving Crowley to buck fruitlessly up against his palm. Cock rigid-hard and balls drawn tight, he rubs through fly and denim though he needn't bother, ghosted sensation of tight fist or mouth or something just as glorious working him over. He keens a wounded sound, broken and high and embarrassing. 

It's quite a few long minutes before Crowley starts to wind down from the high of it, though it could have been hours for all he can tell. He collapses back into the sofa, a disheveled mess: hair sticks to his forehead with sweat, one boot half kicked off and shirt rucked up from squirming against the cushions. The damp patch on his jeans is cooling rapidly. 

When Crowley can finally gather three brain cells together, he shoots a dagger glare at Aziraphale. "Just what... in the  _ fuck _ ," he wheezes, trying to pull his loose limbs into something resembling sitting up. 

Aziraphale's look of deep-seated satisfaction is reminiscent of the way he eyes over a fine dessert, fresh from the kitchen of his favorite Parisian bakery. He had clearly been paying close attention to the proceedings, hands folded neatly over the book open across his desk, though the only sign of effect on him is the dusting of blush across his cheeks. "Just experimenting, my dear," he says, letting his eyes linger over the mess he's wrought before turning back to his book. 


End file.
